


You are Meager and Mundane

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beta:  <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_yahnkehy"></span><a href="http://yahnkehy.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://yahnkehy.livejournal.com/"></a><strong>yahnkehy</strong>; any and all mistakes found are mine, framedhim, as I've re-written since editing<br/>Warning:  foul language, blasphemy, death!fic (MC) with the lack of resolution, grief/depression<br/>Spoilers:  A very slight reference to season 5 finale, mention of season 6 finale w/ Castiel<br/>Disclaimer:  all rights to Supernatural and characters, etc. belong to Kripke, crew, and the CW</p><p>*Written in 2nd person POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are Meager and Mundane

+

You are this - a wealth of knowledge and training. You are John Winchester’s son. You have loved and lost, have ridden your soul to heaven and hell and back and you are here.

  
You are …  


  
******  


  
You know what it’s going to be like, sitting there with your heart on your sleeve, wondering when his watch will tick away the embarrassment clawing its way into your throat. When you finally stop, get to the end of your story, there is no reprieve; no hope for you to slink away - your proverbial tail tucked between your thighs.  


  
You are so sad, and any chance of escape is swept away as quickly as an afterthought. So when this someone, this lifelong friend who doesn’t share your blood, doesn't smell the same as what you're used to, and has all these different mannerisms, when this someone tries to keep you grounded in the here and now – you cringe.  


  
He's old faded denim with holes in the knees, alcohol soaked beard as he fusses, “Spend just a little more time with me, alright. Aw hell, boy. I don't know what I'm doing, 'specially now. Just a little more time, get this offa your chest. Ain’t like we got nothing but a bottle of whiskey to do today.”  


  
It’s not…god, it’s so far from okay.  


  
It’s wrong is what it is, this universe is wrong, and you feel claustrophobic in your own skin, itchy with skin tight to splitting open, sitting here just - being.  


It's you losing sanity right here on this man's steps, in this man's front yard filled to brimming with metal bones. And no matter the audience watching, the one friend who hasn't, won't, back off is trying to help no matter that he will fail.

You are going to fall and sputter out - no fanfare, no long goodbyes.  


  
You know it.  


  
He does as well, ignores your gaping wound to fix the light scratches, consoles the only way he knows.  You think maybe it’s him grieving you as well, his way of letting go. Last Winchester standing was never a saying because it’s a lie. Because there’s no way - no way in this world he does not see how far down your mind is tumbling, shattering your soul before your bones ever touch the earth to crack.

  
A plan B that was never meant to be. You’re going to split wide open, bloodied, and no one will be able to stitch you up correctly. All your parts will be laid out, decaying. You’re already a rotting mess of dead wishes in the well, hopes of a life you and he had that you won’t ever be able to shove back into your guts. Sew them back in there where they damn well belong, nice and tidy like.  


  
Not this time.  


  
“… is that what set you off this morning? You’re not gettin’ any better, boy. Hell, it's a bad day when even I’m scared for you…”  


  
You are so fucking sad.  


  
So grief stricken that his words filter in and out, and you couldn’t form an answer even if you wanted.  There’s this feeling in your head that shoots right down to your chest, blazes a path as it goes and leaves your eyes white-washed, clouded.  You ache everywhere (insides hurt so fucking bad, carve them out) and crave what will never be yours to hold, solace.  You can’t think past the next breath because, oh god, it’ll hurt worse on the intake. The exhale leaves you shaky, and the hand on yours is sudden and grotesque, makes your chest cave in; hope to hell it does so you won’t have to be so full of feeling.

  
It’s so fucking pathetic. He wouldn’t laugh, he wouldn’t, and you want to cry but you don’t. What you do is raise your hand to your mouth to cover the sob.  


  
******  


  
What you do is pray to die at night, alone, “Dear Castiel, full of grace and hate, I cannot do this. Please, oh god, please I can’t...” you choke on spit, hope it kills you right then and there.  


  
“I just…I just can’t do this anymore, you know?" Nothing, of course, then, "Castiel! Get your winged ass down here, please, please, please, please….”  


  
You scream the rest and rage - throw the covers off the bed, try to rip the curtains off their ebony rods. Maybe you’ll torch the fuckers, go down in a blaze of fire. Linen ashes to cover your sorry corpse.  So easy, no haunting, salt water - holy for kicks and grins - downed from a tumbler, and it would be so fucking easy you have to stop to think.

  
Just wait a minute.  


  
You’re confused for a moment, and how did you get to here, thinking this, and why is your face not buried in his neck? Just wait a minute, dammit. Laugh at your stupidity, remind yourself once again, how many fucking times, grief doesn’t wait for anyone; so you gather your wounds, go to lift the bedside table, flip it over. But it’s right there, mocking, so you stop in your destructive fit.

 

If it breaks.  Well.

  
What you do is you blink back the water in your eyes – red crimson capillaries, eyes a week past any hope of white. You hope it scares away heaven, the sight of your eyes showing how much you hate.  


  
“Fuck you, Castiel. Fuck you so hard.”  


  
What you do is sink to your knees and curse a god who was never meant to be, who will not appease you.  Will not bring him back.  You pray, curse, and rage, and yet, he’s still not here, in your bed, still not underneath you no matter you feeling him in your bones.  How your heart doesn’t collapse from this is beyond your understanding, the hurt so horrible there are no words to name it.

  
You are here, and you are so fucking sad.  


  
*****  


  
“…maybe in about a month, okay? I want to know you’ll be alright, safe. You ain't doing anything dumb on my watch, right?”  


  
If you open your mouth, you will sob. You will let loose all the broken, ugly things that never were meant to see the light of day, and you will vomit them up on Bobby’s front porch.  It will break you. 

  
Holding on to your this heartache means it’s yours, and no one, not a single damned soul, deserves an ounce of what it is you carry. The idea of sharing stings, leaves you blanched and choking. When did you think that giving any of this away, making the hurt less of something so god awful, was your right? Angels can’t console you, and demons stay away. Both backed in corners because you’re ‘just no fun to play with anymore, is what you are boy’.  


  
“…on up to the grocery store for supplies. I just don’t know anymore, son. I can’t help you if you won’t at the least let me in some.”  


  
You wrap your thoughts tight and your hands shake. Swallowing down your grief makes your veins throb. You weren’t there, couldn’t stop the mundane accident that stole your brother. The idea of him alone, bleeding, plays on a loop.  You were pressed back against your shared headboard, sipping sugared coffee.  You should’ve died right there with him, both of you in the Impala, hit head on. You’d be dead now but you promised Bobby, promised him in the morgue, you promised something unattainable.

  
Your whole life of familiarity and dysfunction, it's come to this screeching halt in the most normal of ways. The absurdity of the thought reinforces your need to go back to bed, lie down for a good long while (don't wake up) as your chest is too heavy.  


Your mind is worn out, tired of reeling over the stupidity of you still breathing. You pat the hand next to you and you stand, walk away from the jumble of words…

  
“…Sam? We’ll work on her. Just one more month and you can take her out, get her back where she belongs.”  


  
You visualize catching the words in the air, your fists pummeling them down to the ground. Making them a bloodied heap of ugly, demented things. A disgusting mockery of you and him and what will never be until you die, die, die. 

You want to go back to the house you ran from this morning, right around the corner, a refuge he'd sought near friends, a home full of first times. First time homeowners, for lover quarrels that broke you both in strange ways and for fucking to put you both right.

  
“’Kay, Bobby. Thanks.”  


  
Maybe you’ll dream of him if you get home, right now. If he comes to you, always if you sleep long enough, he won’t laugh. There will be love and a poke to your chest. Might call you girl names and demand you straighten out this emo crap while threatening you within an inch of your life and if he does – you’ll beg him to take it.  


  
It’s stupor and pain and grief rolled into muscled packaging wasting away from a severe lack of sleep and a forgotten need to eat.  It’s hate and an inability to function that’s moving your shell into the home you shared.

  
It’s love, death, and tears on your pillow as you crawl into bed. It’s warm under the down comforter he bought on a bland, rainy Saturday afternoon. Its duvet is white with scalloped edges, black scrolls and tiny fleur-de-lis lining the top portion of the flip side, so that when you turn it down….he was so proud his eyes crinkled at their corners.  


  
“Congrats, you big dork, your gay has finally infiltrated my brain. Oh, but look dude, it comes with these Euro shams and it’s all black and white, so that’s not girly. Drapes weren’t included but we got a steal. And you can stop laughing now, overgrown brat.”  


  
You sink into isolation. Press the shams against your body, tuck your arms under like you can still fill each of his ribs, like you can still grind into his ass and tease him. Ask him what’s worse on the ‘going to hell for the tenth time list’, taking it up the ass or incest. Match his heartbeat as he fights you on it but there’s no rhythm to sync with in this room.  


  
None.  


  
You’re almost to oblivion when you spot it - painful, stinking and it takes your soul down while you ‘Now I lay me, down to sleep. Pray to god my soul to keep.'  


  
****  


  
“Rise and shine, dude!" Too warm, too cozy, and a hand on your shoulder shakes you awake. Roll over to face outward, blink groggily, mutter curses while you smile. Sleep stupid grin widening at the sight of the blue Henley being worn, the one you'd bought for his last birthday.  


  
"I’ve gotta run down to the hardware store, make a pit-stop at Bobby’s - grab a few parts for my girl. Get her oil changed, swap out her plugs and what say you and me take her for a drive. Feel like a road trip this weekend, yeah?" He's hinting, and you let him fumble, knowing you'll acquiesce - not until he begs though, for his benefit and all. Wait for it.  


"...found a piece a’ cake salt and burn two towns over. Dingy diner, pie to die for," he's talking, moving around and owning every molecule in the room. The man has to always appear larger than life, the only way to carry himself and it strikes you as comforting and so very much Dean.

"I took a few sips of your coffee, had to rinse that out with stuff real men drink. The frou-frou's right here on the nightstand,” he leans over, and yeah, you take a whiff of your coffee on his breath, try to catch the taste of it. You want to stop him, make him see the error of his chore-like ways and drag him down to you, in bed, where he belongs.

  
“Nah, man, c’mon. S'too early, c'mere,” A slip of a kiss, tease and you lick the bow of his lip just to see if you can piss him off. His hand's warm from the coffee mug as it settles on your chest; it steadies you, even as your morning wood tents your boxer briefs, keeps you stock still. Your faces are inches from each other, eyes lock onto yours then make a roving sweep to your lips.  


  
“Damn, Sam, I can't. Have to let me go....'k, okay, not gonna be long. An hour, tops. Just, don't get up. Join you when I get back,” he whispers it, prayer-like against your lips, eyes wide (you know this look, unbelieving and too damn lucky for one guy to get away with), looking into yours, and it's fucked up and perfect; you wouldn't trade it for the world.  


  
One more coffee soaked kiss breaks the spell, and then he’s a tornado, a whorl of chaos grabbing his wallet, keys.  


  
“Hey, Dean?”  


  
Almost out the bedroom door, he turns, jacket rumpled as he leans around the door frame, puts his hip up against the white trim and gives it a good pat, waits.  


  
“What’s up?”  


  
“Love you, jerk.”  


  
A catch of breath and he nods, eyes focused over your shoulder, then retreats. You hear his laughter; it echoes down the hallway and you know the sound of your front door opening.  


  
“Hey, Sammy?” far away, outside and there's a pause, quick as a heartbeat, “Love you too, bitch.”


End file.
